In Sight of Angband
by ConstantTraveller
Summary: Before the Fall of Fingolfin, Fingon tries to stop his father from riding to his death. [Oneshot]


**In Sight of Angband**

**Summary: **Before Fall of Fingolfin, Fingon tries to stop his father from riding to his death. [Oneshot]

**Characters: **Fingolfin, Fingon

**AN: **I have often wondered about how Fingolfin would have received the news of his allies being routed. Considering how much he has seen and done, it must have profoundly affected him to cause such an irrational action as to declare single combat on Morgoth. I wanted to explore that scene, so enjoy.

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_"Then Fingolfin beheld (as it seemed to him) the utter ruin of the Noldor, and the defeat beyond redress of all their houses; and filled with wrath and despair he mounted Rochallor his great horse and rode forth alone, and none might restrain him."_

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It was quiet in Barad Eithel.

The sky, having remained overcast and grey since their arrival, swirled now threateningly on the horizon. Through the arched stone windows, the flapping blue banners of the region snapped in the wind. In the distance, across the plains of Ard-galen, rivers of fire belched great clouds of smoke into the sky and coated the fortress in soot.

His nose felt numb from his brief walk outside and his hands tingled as the feeling returned to them. The cold had not been stopped from creeping through their thick walls but the wind had been broken and no longer swirled in chaos around him. Only recently they had run out of wood to burn in the great stone hearths of the hall. Even straw to lie on or scatter under the oaken tables had been retained, in an effort to feed the animals.

Fingon walked through the hall as he observed the ill soldiers that lay propped up or splayed on their sides. They had long since given up on voicing their pain and now they simply lay silent. Occasionally, a cough would penetrate the silence, only to be smothered by oppressive silence. Gentle elvish women stopped occasionally to wet a forehead with a rag or to re-bandage a suffering wound. Their forms moved like ghosts through the great pillars of light, which streamed through the stone windows in beams.

He made no sound as he walked, although his soldiers, some too tired to lift their heads, watched him pass. Their eyes felt heavy on his back and he stared only ahead of him. The weight of their loyalty and silent accusations burned into his being and he ignored the throbbing of his heart.

A great wooden throne sat at the end of the hall, carved from wood and filled with intricate designs that only the Noldor could have created. He stopped in his pacing's and stared at it, struck by its presence and its insignificance. Candles, the only burning light of the space, warmed the woods colour. Compared to the bareness of their lodgings, the decorative piece seemed lavish.

Silently, his father came to stand beside him. Even with his keen elfish hearing, Fingon found it difficult to observe a pattern in his movements and walking. As a child, he had spent endless hours watching and trying to copy his father.

Nodding his head in respect, Fingon spoke quietly, "Father."

Fingolfin nodded back to him, his eyes also fixated on the throne that stood before them. Despite the youthful appearance of his face, he seemed unbearably ancient and tired. Dagor Bragollach had taken a toll on his King's energy and spirit, as well as the constant defence of the fortress as it was relentlessly attacked by the enemy.

"You have completed your rounds?"

"Yes," Fingon replied. "It is a mixed report. We can survive on the food that we have stored and the weather, although not mild, is not dangerous. I am worried, however, about a storm that is brewing on the distance. If our stocks our flooded or food tainted with mould, we will be decimated. And this soot that falls from the sky, it can not be healthy for the people and already I have heard persistent coughing throughout both day and night."

His father showed no reaction to the news as he continued to stare at the great wooden throne. The candles flickered, briefly, and Fingon had a brief vision of Fingolfin sitting at his throne, his eyes searching the ceiling above the unmoving bodies of his people. He wandered what price they would have to pay until they abandoned the fortress and sought greener hills and clearer skies.

Fingon cleared his throat as he continued, "as of yet, we have had no reports of illness. However, with no fire or appetizing food, the spirits of our soldiers are depleting with each day. While we hold the region…"

Fingon trailed off uncertainly, his eyes roving on the silent bodies of the soldiers as they slept and healed. His father, taking his silent suggestion, led the way to the open double panel doors to the hall. Two guards stood on watch at the doors, their faces impassive as their two leaders passed silently in front of them and walked towards the impressive fortification walls of the town. Below them, civilians and uninjured soldiers worked diligently. Their thin bodies showed evidence of malnutrition and illness.

Reaching an area of the wall with no guards, Fingon turned to his father once more, "While we hold the region defensively, we must be wary of internal sabotage."

Fingolfin raised an elegant eyebrow, "Do you believe our followers capable of such treachery?"

"You saw their current state? Half of our forces are wounded, the other half wearied and in constant fear of there lives. We sit, perched in this fortress like birds in a cage while Beleriand is ravaged by the hordes of Morgoth. With each assertive stance we make at the borders, we are given just as strong a push backwards."

The wind stirred in Fingolfin's hair as he considered his son's words, "You sound dismayed."

"How could I not be?" He said honestly. "Angrod and Aegnor have perished and our women flee from beasts that would deliver worse things than death. All the while Morgoth sits on his throne and each day believes himself closer to victory. And with each dark night, I wonder if our enemy is not imagining grandeurs of illusion but simply observing the realty of our weaknesses."

"You have little hope remaining then?"

"I have hope in our people and this land but even you can not deny the strength of our enemy?"

"Strength isn't the only way to win a war."

Leaning against the edge of the fortification walls, Fingon looked up at the sky. His eyes searched for something that he had no hope of seeing. The clouds moved above as they formed a blanket of dark grey. Behind him, the plains of Ard-galen swirled in shadows as the clouds fled to the mountains beyond. Always looming in the distance was Angband.

A disturbance distracted them and they turned towards an approaching Scout. Stopping before them, he removed his helmet and bowed low. Fingolfin made a gesture for him to rise and the elf did so hesitatingly, apprehension visible on his face.

"My Lords."

"You bring news?" Said Fingon, his heart filled with hope but his eyes fixated on the expression of worry on the Scouts face. The soldier winced at his words and Fingon's heart dropped to his stomach.

"Yes. We intercepted a party of travellers who had fled to our walls and they brought word of ill tidings for our allies. We were told that Dorthonion was lost and the sons of Finarfin overthrown. The sons of Feanor have been driven from their land."

Fingon felt the air escape him as he searched the Scouts face. He was looking for deception and lies in the mans face, and yet could only find worry and honesty. His fathers usual noble face, impassive against armies and calm in all but the most extreme of events, had turned ashen grey.

The scout, sensing that his presence was no longer needed, retreated with a bow.

His King turned to face the landscape in front of him, his face morphing from an ashen grey complexion to one of fury and anger. Fingon watched him and felt pity enter his heart for the woes that had so recently been placed on his shoulders. Still regal and poised, he could note a faint line of distress work its way through the Noldor's body, despite his rigid stance as he looked out at the distant mountains and swelling storm.

"We are ruined," said his King, mournfully.

Fingon didn't speak, his heart descending from his chest with each moment that passed.

"We are defeated," Fingolfin continued, his hands and knuckles white as they gripped the stone of the fortifications. The walls of their base, once so strong against both nature and their enemies now seemed fragile under the King's hands.

His father breathed in deeply, before turning and walking resolutely towards the large stone staircase. His sword, still sheathed at his waist, tapped at each step he left behind. Fingon followed him, apprehension in his mind at the focused march of his leader.

The King's fury seemed to echo throughout the town. As he walked pointedly and with observable distress, soldiers, maids and civilians all stopped to watch him. Their faces, usually lit with hope at the sight of him, watched with concern as he passed through the town. Children stopped their playing, minstrels put down their harps and labourers laid down their axes. All stopped to watch the fury of their King as he walked.

As their direction became clearer, Fingon felt an unfamiliar feeling of terror overcome him. "My lord," he said, although no answer became him.

"My king!" He shouted, although no reaction came.

As Fingolfin passed through the stable doors, Fingon tried once more to capture his attention.

He spoke softly and with as much gentleness as he could muster, "Father."

The elf King paused, now standing before Rochallor who paced nervously in his stall at the sight of his rider. The great horse rippled with muscles, his winter coat healthy and brilliant in the waning light. A stable boy, who had been brushing him, saw the fury on his King's face and quickly left the stable. All other workers had stopped and now watched their leaders with wide unblinking eyes.

"Your people need you," he said. "Do not leave them when they most need a leader."

His father turned to him, "My fate as King was sealed from the moment I was delivered news of our allies defeat. I cannot leave the deaths of my kin from my mind without action. I cannot sit in my throne from afar and not take action against such an enemy. I leave to fight but I do not leave my people without a leader… without a King."

Fingon pursed his lips, hardly believing that he may never see his father again, "I implore you, father. Do not go. You will die."

"I may," said his King as he led out the great horse and swung onto the unsaddled back of Rochallor. "But it is a worthy sacrifice to make and my perished brethren within the Halls of Mandos will welcome me. And we will watch the valour of my children and the next King through the tapestries of Vairë as a new spring of hope is heralded forth in this desolate war."

Desperately, Fingon grabbed the mane of the horse and held it tightly. The horse stopped its pacing as its ears flicked forward and its eyes unblinkingly watched him. His father stared at him stonily; his body tense and rigid as he allowed his son to momentarily halt him.

As if realizing for the first time that he may never see his child again, Fingolfin's expression changed and softened. They stood, facing each other while the uninjured soldiers and civilians watched them. The world stood motionless and not even the sound of the wind interrupted their stillness.

In a clear and proud voice, Fingolfin spoke, his eyes never leaving those of his son's, "If I do not return from Angband and the dwelling of Morgoth; if I do not survive this battle; Fingon, my son, you will be King. And a fine, wise and fair King you will make."

His last words held affection, enough to bring tears to the eyes of Fingon as he released the mane of Rochallor. The animal skirted to the side, its body ready and willing to sprint against the wind.

His father, sparing one last glance at his son, kicked his mount into action and thundered towards the great gates of the town.

Fingon watched his retreating form until it passed through the gates.

Running in the direction of the walls, he climbed a nearby ladder and stood atop the fortress. Gazing out at his father form as he galloped towards Angband, he already knew that he would never see him again.

Beside him, the proud blue banners of his land snapped in the wind, while on the horizon, a storm brewed.

He searched the sky, as if seeking allies from the sun and moon.

The wind howled.

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**AN: **I hope you enjoyed my rather depressing fic! Please let me know your thoughts about it.


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